


Rain on the Glass

by menhir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Dreaming, M/M, Meditation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, dreaming about better things, lying in a greenhouse, mindfulness, stuckony if you really squint, watching the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menhir/pseuds/menhir
Summary: A storm is coming in. Bucky watches the rain through the windows of an old, neglected greenhouse.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Rain on the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for myself as I'm dealing with my own PTSD and trying to get back into my creative writing. Not sure how much sense it makes, but I’ve been really charmed by greenhouses lately and I couldn’t get over the idea of Bucky finding some quiet, healing space for himself inside one. (This is unrelated to any of my other fics, but you can see some stuckony in it if you really squint.)

The old greenhouse attached to the Stark mansion was empty and in disrepair. There was no electricity. The bulbs were broken and the outlets were rusted. The gold light of late afternoon came in through glass panes fogged with age and coated in grime.

Bucky slid his metal hand along one of the workbenches, sweeping dirt and dry twigs onto the tile floor. Every shelf and table was bare. The room had been gutted and left empty for far too long.

Bucky knew how that felt. And maybe that was why he kept coming back here. In a way, he and the old bones of this place understood one another.

Outside, a shadow dimmed the sun.

Storm clouds were coming in.

Bucky lay down on the floor, head pillowed on his hands. Through the murky windows, the sky above was an impressionist painting. White and gold clouds towered higher and higher, trying to catch the last rays of sunlight before the shadows crashed in with their swirling blues and dark greys. The trees outside were frantic paintbrushes, stirring and thrashing as the wind picked up.

The clouds grumbled. Lightning flickered, flashed, and then cracked across the sky in forked branches. Rain cascaded over the greenhouse in waterfalls. Droplets seeped through the framework, splatting on surfaces, rivulets sliding down meandering paths to find cracks in the floor.

The air filled with the smell of damp earth, old wood, rust, and moss.

Bucky closed his eyes.

The storm faded into the background.

He could sense the memory of growing things all around him, or imagined he could sense it—the former life of the greenhouse, energy uncurling in green leaflets and soft petals. He dreamed he lay heavy among the greenery and he, too, was growing roots that sank deep into the ground below. Just another plant thriving in this forgotten shelter.

Sprouts grew from the joints of his metal arm. Vines and branches dismantled the silver plates and scattered the mechanics, piece by piece. The plants took apart all the terrible things Hydra had done to him, all the horrors Hydra had made him do, and turned it all back into quiet earth. Mud for the flowers.

He shuddered as the weight left him and he sighed with relief.

He had been dead for so long, he’d forgotten the name of this lightness blossoming inside his chest. It started small and curled outward, a fullness brimming into every cell.

The bright wings of butterflies alighted on him in the dark.

And, oh. Oh. He remembered now.

The name he had forgotten—

“Buck?”

Bucky breathed in and opened his eyes, coming back to himself.

He’d been sleeping.

Night had fallen. The outdoor lights had come on, casting crisscrossing shadows through the greenhouse. The storm had passed, but rain still beat against the glass in a steady rhythm. A soft rain, a soothing rain. The kind that started things growing.

“You all right?” Steve’s voice came from the light in the door.

“I think so,” Bucky murmured groggily. He sat up, stretched his neck, and flexed his fingers. The metal arm was still there, still intact, joints working. But somehow it didn’t seem as heavy.

A drop fell on Bucky’s cheek and he wiped it away with his right hand—the chill of the rain lingering like a kiss. He smoothed his thumb over his wet fingers. “Yeah, ’m all right,” he said, louder.

Steve’s silhouette didn’t seem so sure. “Need anything?”

Bucky shivered and took in his surroundings. It was cold and dark and damp, but he wasn’t quite ready to come inside yet. “Sit with me?”

Steve’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, relaxing. “Yeah, give me a minute.”

He came back with blankets and they found a dry spot to curl up in together, the rain shadows dancing over them in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://explodingcrenelation.tumblr.com) ♡


End file.
